


seeds

by orphan_account



Category: Hamlet - Shakespeare
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-03
Updated: 2016-03-03
Packaged: 2018-05-24 13:04:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6154655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Horatio knows <i>of</i> his classmate Hamlet, but he doesn't really know him. That's about to change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	seeds

A beautiful spring day has dawned, the sun bright in a cloudless sky, but Horatio cannot give it due appreciation as he exits the school library. He spent all of last night and most of the previous day writing a paper, and feels a bit bereft now that it’s completed; in the meantime, a dull ache has taken root behind his eyes. He wants nothing more than to sleep, but the endless cups of coffee he consumed in order to pull his all-nighter haven’t left his system yet. His hands and nerves are shaky with caffeine and exhaustion.

Horatio strides across the faculty parking lot, heading for the small copse of trees that separates the dormitories from the rest of Wittenberg University’s campus. If he cuts through the wooded area, he should have enough time to change clothes and brush his teeth before his classes begin. Mindful of the time, he walks so quickly that he almost doesn’t notice the other boy. An unexpected shape in one of the elms’ lower limbs brings Horatio up short, however, and he glances up to find Hamlet Elsinore perched in a tree like some overgrown songbird, his fine leather satchel hung over a branch above him. Staying up all night tends to numb Horatio to strong emotions, including surprise, but the heir to Dane Industries is about the last thing he expected to see. Horatio gapes openly at him for a moment.

“That’s not safe,” Horatio blurts, because he feels the need to say something. “Most of those branches are dead.”

Hamlet waves off his concern—literally waves, all careless imperiousness as he replies, “The girl who taught me to climb trees could spot a rotten limb a mile away, and so can I.” His eyes go sharp and curious then. He cocks his head and says, “You’re Horatio.”

Horatio nods, though it was hardly a question.

“Just now, you came out of the library. I’ve been here for a while, but I never saw you go in, and the place doesn’t open until nine. How did you manage that?”

The idea that Hamlet was watching the library—watching _him_ —makes Horatio uncomfortable. He nevertheless feels compelled to answer honestly: “I help out there, sometimes. The librarian let me stay the night.”

“She locked you in the building.”

“There are worse prisons.”

Unexpectedly, Hamlet gives a more genuine smile than Horatio has ever seen from him. “True enough.”

Horatio finds himself scanning the empty branches, looking for the two boys who transferred to Wittenberg along with Hamlet. Seeing the young heir without his tagalongs is almost as unexpected as seeing him up a tree. Meanwhile, Hamlet goes on:

“You ‘help out there.’ For class credit, or through the work study program?”

 _Why is he so curious?_ Horatio wonders. “I don’t—it’s unofficial—”

“You work for free, then? No wonder you’re poor.”

Hamlet speaks without notable malice or mockery, but his words are like a slap: face and neck heating, Horatio turns to leave, or starts to.

“Wait! Don’t go away.” That imperiousness again, shot through with amusement this time—and something else Horatio can’t identify. “I was only joking.”

Horatio halts in spite of himself. Every muscle in his body is tight with anger. “Being poor isn’t a joke to me.”

“Obviously not. You take it so seriously that you won’t even let the school pay you for services rendered. Or maybe you get paid in other ways? Does the librarian ‘compensate’ you?”

“She’s about sixty!” Appalled, Horatio whips around in time to see Hamlet shrug.

“So? Old, young, married, single—none of that matters to women. My mother’s age didn’t stop her.”

Horatio gives a half-chuckle, dry and disbelieving, because he isn’t sure how else to react.

Hamlet grins. “Lo, is that a smile from Horatio the Serious? I wasn’t sure you knew _how_.”

“Hence the hysterical joke about my financial situation?”

“I had two options by which I could divine the truth about your ability to smile,” says Hamlet, ticking them off on his fingers: “Make jokes, or ask outright whether public schools teach their students to have a sense of humor.”

“I’m self-taught. What’s your excuse?”

“Don’t you know? I’m a delinquent. I never studied the material.”

Horatio understands he’s joking still, yet the bit about Hamlet’s delinquency has more than a grain of truth to it—Hamlet doesn’t attend class half the time.  The notion of someone taking their expensive education for granted rekindles Horatio’s irritation, reminding him that at this rate, he’ll be late for his own classes. “Right,” he mutters. “I’ll see you, then.”

Again he tries to walk away, and again Hamlet stops him, this time by leaping down from the tree and grabbing Horatio’s arm. Horatio tries to break free, but the other boy’s grip is surprisingly strong.

“Let go!”

“Don’t leave. Smile for me again, Horatio; your whole face changes when you smile.”

Horatio bares his teeth at Hamlet, who laughs in pure delight. “You’re a treasure,” he murmurs, and that’s—Horatio has no _idea_ how to process that.

“I’m late for class,” he counters, shaking his head to cover up his embarrassed flush, “and so are you. Formal Logic, remember? You should show up more often.”

“I only _just_ managed to get away from Rosencrantz and Guildenstern this morning. Why would I spoil that by going where they’ll be?”

Horatio is confused—he honestly thought Hamlet and they were friends—but stops himself from prying. “Fine, that’s your choice, but—”

“Skip class with me?”

“… _What_?”

Hamlet releases his arm. “Skip class with me,” he repeats. “You look dead on your feet, and it’s boring by myself. We could go eat breakfast somewhere.”

The absurdity of it all drains the anger from Horatio, leaving him weak and light-headed: Hamlet Elsinore wants to _hang out_? With _him_? “I don’t even know you.”

“You know who I am.”

“I know _of_ you. There’s a difference.” Hamlet looks inordinately pleased at the distinction, and Horatio fears he’s only made the young heir more determined to kidnap him. Quickly, he continues, “And I’m here on a scholarship. I have to attend class in order to keep my grades up.”

“Students are allowed a certain number of unexcused absences per class. How many have you used so far?” Hamlet doesn’t wait for an answer. “None, by my reckoning.”

“I could have been absent on one of the days that you were,” points out Horatio.

“You came to class with the flu last month. I know because you were sneezing and feverish and Rosencrantz caught it from you—he was miserable for a week afterward. A person who goes to Formal Logic despite having the flu doesn’t miss class, ever.”

Horatio remembers that bout of sickness. He wouldn’t wish it on his worst enemy, let alone Rosencrantz, for whom he harbors no particular dislike. At his shamefaced expression, Hamlet bursts into laughter.

“Are you feeling sorry for him? Don’t!”

Horatio shakes his head. “I still can’t…”

Hamlet glides into his personal space like a shadow, his long, thin fingers wrapping around Horatio’s wrist again in a non-verbal bid for his complete attention. “I’m not asking you out on a date, Horatio,” he says, too quietly. “It’s only breakfast. If it’ll make you feel better, you don’t even have to let me pay for your food.”

Far off, the university’s turret clock chimes the hour. Horatio realizes that even if runs, he will be over five minutes late to class, and to the Formal Logic professor, being tardy is the same as not being present at all. The final dregs of resistance leech from him. “Oh, you’re paying,” he sighs, suppressing the urge to rub his eyes. “If I’m going to skip, I may as well get a free meal out of it.”

 “That’s the spirit,” says Hamlet with a grin.


End file.
